Thirty-three and a third.

How many English or surrogate English would pledge allegiance. In 1988 I could not pledge my self to Australia no matter how wonderful it was/is. There is too much English, British, European in me to forfeit that existence. There are many reflections of being human but all are illusions. Nothing outside myself is true in any way. Do I subconsciously seek recognition in my vain scribbling? For years I went to get acceptance from the ways beyond me only to see that no goal can ever be reached outside myself. There is always one more hurdle, one more possession, one more agenda. Losing this pointless, frivolous action is perhaps the only way for me not to cease my life through unnatural causes. In truth I do find writing gives me a way out of the prison my mind has been placed in. All my life I've tried to feel real while being attacked by the grotesquely deafening, tongueless corpse of the blindly insane. Enough is enough. There is a better way. It's simply to be myself and let no more cluster fuckery displace my sense of worth and belonging; not to replay the same boring old 1980s pop formed on wavy vinyl packaged in third rate avant-garde sleeve - there is a Different Kind of Magic.